


The Silent Wolf

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Lyanna Stark (OFC), BAMF Sansa Stark, F/M, Good Parent Ned Stark, House Stark Original Sibling, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Ned Stark Lives, No King In The North, Political Jon Snow, Protective Arya Stark, Protective Lyanna Stark (OFC), Protective Ned Stark, Quote: When you play the game of thrones you win or you die, War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lyanna Stark knew that one day she'd be forced to travel South to marry the son of the late Prince Rhaegar, Lord Jon Targaryen, Ward of the King. Her mother had insisted it was her duty and her father had told her to uphold their family honour by marrying him. But when Jon Arryn dies suddenly and King Robert travels up North to ask her father to be Hand of the King, Lyanna finds herself heading to King's Landing with two sisters to protect while her father navigates a den of lions, vipers and spiders not to mention the dragon lurking about. The Northern Lady must learn to play the Game Of Thrones, and be sure never to make a mistake, or else it may cost her dearly, potentially her life or that of those she holds dear. Though Lyanna may come to find that King's Landing isn't as lonely as she once thought it was, but all the same, she must heed her father's warning: 'when the winter winds blow, the lone wolf dies and the pack survives.' After all, Winter is Coming for them all.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister (past), Jaime Lannister & Jon Snow, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s), Jon Snow/Original House Stark Character(s), Lyanna Stark (OFC)/Jon Snow, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (mentioned), Robb Stark & Lyanna Stark (OFC) & Sansa Stark & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 63





	1. Lyanna I

_ ‘Beautiful. Willful. _

_ And Dead before her time.’ _

By the time that Lyanna Stark had reached her sixteenth birthday, she had seen countless men die. The North claimed so many with its harsh snow and cruel blizzards that plagued the region, despite the fact that Winter was yet to come. She had been forced to help the Septas and her sisters tend to the dying when the Summer snows had forced the weak and ill to fall to their knees, coughing blood. Nature had claimed its due and made women out of the girls who had known nothing of its true powers. Lyanna had also witnessed her father and his men claim lives. When the Ironborn had made a ditch attempt on the North before the siege of Pyke, she’d seen men cut down in their prime and when she had turned four and ten, her father had taken her with her eldest brother to watch the North’s justice.

Two years later, she was an old hand at it.

The snow had long since blanketed the ground, and the stallions along with Lyanna’s grey filly crunched over the ground, making their way to the execution site. The men didn’t speak, all too sombre and cold to open their mouths. Even Robb, her auburn-haired brother, and Theon, her father’s ward, made no sound, but Lyanna knew that both were only trying to please the older lords, especially Lord Eddard. Her youngest brother, Bran, shivered on his pony, but rode quietly beside her, pretending that he’d been here before, but everyone knew it was his first time seeing justice in the North. From time to time, the men would cast their gazes back to the woman draped in dark grey and black, waiting to see her shiver or look away from the horror to come. 

Lyanna never met their gazes, holding her head up high, silently grateful for her many dark layers and thick furs. Her long braid beat her back as she rode, but still, she held herself with grace and honour. Her steely eyes remained fixed on the horizon and on the rough slab of stone alone in the wilderness where men were brought to die. The deserter was already waiting there, bound in rope and held by Jory Cassel, just like they all were, waiting to die.

As she neared, Lyanna could see that the man, well, the boy really, had lost half his fingers to frostbite along with both ears. His clothes were little more than rags, and Lyanna found herself surprised that he had lasted this long. Not that it mattered now. In a matter of minutes, he’d be no more and his blood would stain the white landscape around them. His eyes were already dead, and Lyanna couldn’t help but think that perhaps death would be a small mercy for him.

Robb and Theon stopped a few feet from the stone waiting for the younger Starks to join them. Bran urged his tiny pony beside his older brother’s great stallion and stared out, afraid. He shook beside them and pulled his long cloak closer to his body, desperate for warmth. Offering Bran a small smile, Lyanna came to flank her brothers. The dark-haired Greyjoy and the dark-haired Stark caged in the two auburn-haired Stark boys, who’s bright blue eyes could have been too Southern had it not been for the smallest hint of steel in their gazes.

Tearing her gaze from her brothers, Lyanna watched her father kneel in the snow before the deserter, Ice in hand. The Valyrian greatsword glimmered dark silver in the early morning light, reflecting the face of the man waiting to die by its hand. Lyanna couldn’t stop her shiver at the sight of it and straightened up, listening to her father speak. “In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted his greatsword above his head, ready to strike.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyanna saw Robb edge closer to Bran and mutter: “Don’t look anyway, Father will know if you do.”

Together, the Stark children raised their heads, their eyes trained on Ice, watching it fall, severing the man’s neck with a single blow. None of them glanced away, not even little Bran when the man’s blood stained the snow, his lips still moving, whispering silent prayers that would never be answered now. The body slumped backwards and their father delicately removed Ice, and turned away, his eyes finding his children.

“You did well, Bran,” Lyanna said, smiling.

The boy nodded, his face paler than the snow beneath their horses' hooves and Lyanna was grateful that Bran had heeded her advice not to eat before they’d headed out. Robb and Theon nodded at the younger Starks before casting their eyes at the Warden of the North and galloping off towards Winterfell, snow flying behind them. The Lords watched on, shaking their heads at the antics of the young men, though none of them was surprised. 

“Where are they off to?” Bran asked, staring up at her, his blue eyes wide.

“Home.” Lyanna said with a sigh, “they always do this after an execution. It helps them forget.”

Shrugging, Lyanna sighed and dug her heels into the side of her filly, urging the horse to walk on through the bitter cold and back towards the castle. Beside her, Bran attempted to copy her actions, though his little pony took more time to cooperate before falling into a slow step alongside his older sister. The elder of the two cast her gaze down at Bran, taking in her younger brother, noting that it was only in these moments that she could just about see their resemblance. The young boy, like all her other siblings bar Ayra, took after their Southern mother. Where Lyanna had dark hair, Bran was fair and where Lyanna’s eyes were the colour of Valyrian steel, Bran’s eyes were the colour of the summer sky. Despite the obvious differences, they shared their father’s long face and their mother’s delicate features. 

The soft sound of hooves crunching on snow broke Lyanna from her reverie and she didn’t need to cast her eyes behind her shoulder to know that her father was nearing them. Lord Eddard never made a dramatic entrance, choosing only to guide his horse to his daughter’s right so that he could see both of his children. With a soft smile, he greeted them warmly: “Lyanna, Bran.”

“Father.” both replied, inclined their heads.

“He died bravely, didn’t he father?” Bran said, anxious to prove he’d paid attention.

Eddard’s smile sobered and his face grew solemn. His hand clenched on the greatsword at his hip, but he didn’t speak. Lyanna instead turned to Bran and said: “no, he didn't. He was already half dead with fear, you could see it in his eyes.”

“But -”

“A man can only be brave when he’s afraid, Lyanna,” Eddard said, diplomatically, looking between the two children, more than used to their disagreements. Looking over at the Gods’ Wood, he added pensively: “He did die well, though, I’ll give him that.”

“Be thankful for that, Bran,” Lyanna said in a low voice.

“I am.” Bran nodded, still a little green.

Keeping his gaze on the horizon, Eddard’s grey eyes glazed over for a moment, lost in thought before he shook himself and looked down at Bran. In a gentle voice, he asked: “Do you know why I had to do it?”

“Father?”

“Why I had to swing the sword, do you know why?” Eddard pressed, seeing his son’s confusion and watching his daughter stiffen. All Stark children had to learn the reason why he swung the sword, even if most of them had never seen his justice in the flesh.

“Because ours is the old way,” Bran said, cautiously, unsure of himself.

Eddard nodded, turning his eyes to his daughter and silently encouraging her to explain further. A soft sigh left Lyanna’s lips, her breath rising in the air in front of her like white smoke. Turning her gaze towards Bran, Lyanna said: “Because the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you cannot kill the people you sentence to die, then you have no right to determine their fate.”

“And that is the old way, Bran.” Eddard elaborated. Both his children nodded slowly, shrinking into their furs and turning their sights to home. Sensing their discomfort, he smiled once more and said: “Now, come children, let us go home.”

The three of them urged their horses on, digging their heels in and galloping down the obscured road towards the rest of their party and to the warm fires of Winterfell. The horse kicked up snow behind them and to anyone standing it would have looked like the skies had opened again. Every so often, the crunch of snow would be replaced by a horse’s shoe hitting an uncovered cobble.

“Father! Father!” Robb’s voice called from the trees. All three remaining Starks urged their horses onwards as Robb appeared from the undergrowth, beaming from ear to ear. “Come quick! Look what Theon’s found!”

With that, he turned his horse around and galloped back into the woods, his family following on. Glancing over at his younger children, Eddard asked: “What have they done this time?”

Not wanting to linger, the three twisted and turned down the Kings’ Road, following the tracks Robb had made in the snow. They hurtled through the trees, the branches tearing at them and the ground uneven underfoot. Bran’s pony struggled to keep up with the pace their father set and even Lyanna had to drive her heels into her filly's side. Leaves tangled in their hair and crackled beneath their horses' hooves. They twisted this way and that, following the winding road, barely catching a glimpse of Robb in the distance. Thankfully, they didn’t have to go too far to see what the young men had found.

Lying in a ditch by the road, a huge creature loomed. Her fur was matted with her own blood and a stag antler protruded from her side, the instrument of her death. The pure snow around the wolf’s body had been tainted with blood and guts. Crows nested in the trees, curious and ever watching, desperate to feast on the rancid flesh. A dead wolf wasn’t an unusual sight, especially this far North, but the sheer size of the beast was what had made the party pause. The she-wolf couldn’t have been a native, she had to have been from the lands beyond the wall. A dead direwolf.

“Robb, Theon get away from the beast,” Eddard called out, his face pale and his eyes wide.

“But father, there are pups.” Robb countered, and he raised his arms, showing the three pups nestled there while the Lord’s ward did the same grinning. “Live ones.”

“Robb -” Eddard started.

“There are six - three male and three female, they’re our house sigil, Father.” Robb pointed out, moving out of the snow to hand a grey-brown pup to Bran, who cradled the tiny animal in his arms, smiling happily.

Glancing between her father and brother, Lyanna smile, urging the filler forward and turning to her father. From Theon’s arms, the albino wolf watched her intently, her red eyes boring into the Stark girl’s features. Glancing away from the pup, Lyanna said: “Robb’s right, Father, perhaps we were meant to have them - one each. They’re our house sigil and you have three sons and three daughters.”

“Lyanna -”

“We’ll look after them, tend to them, feed them and if they die, we’ll bury them,” Lyanna added, cutting her father off, hoping that she could persuade him. Eddard always swayed to his children’s wishes, in the end, all they had to do was keep asking until he caved.

“We will, Father.” Bran and Robb chorused, nodding.

Eddard sighed heavily, his steely eyes sweeping over all of the younger members of the party with a weary look to his gaze. He knew all too well that once his children had set their minds to something, it was damn near impossible to sway them to another viewpoint. Shaking his head, Eddard said: “Very well.”

The smiles he received were gratitude enough and he couldn’t help but smile when Lyanna took the albino pup into her arms, tucking her under the young lady’s cloak. Lyanna knew all too well that her father would share her and her siblings’ delight at the new additions to their family. She clutched her pup to her chest and cradled her gently, digging her heels into the filly's side and heading back towards the warm halls of Winterfell.

…

By the time night had set in, all six Stark children had been gifted with their direwolves, each finding that the wolf picked them out of the rest. The largest of the pack, a dark grey beast had chosen Robb to be his master, to which the young man almost broke down with joy, declaring his wolf to be called Greywind. The daintiest grey wolf had found Sansa’s side and received the name Lady from the girl. Arya had been united with the feistiest of the pack, a little she-wolf, unafraid of anyone and who truly fit the name Nymeria. Bran and Rickon had picked the final grey and black one respectively with Bran undecided on a name and little Rickon yelling Shaggydog at the tiny animal. As for Lyanna, the tiny albino had never left her side, silently observing the human and the wolf pack with her large red eyes. Rickon had been terrified of the small wolf and had cried about dead wolves running wild, prompting Lyanna to name her wolf, Ghost.

Hours had gone by since they had all been united, but the Stark siblings had yet to part. They all sat in the small solar, that divided the boys’ rooms from the girls’, enjoying each others’ company. Beneath the white banner with a direwolf running across it, Sansa curled up on an armchair with her sowing and Rickon on her lap. In the firelight, their hair moved, mirroring the light source. Across from them on the ancient, fraying rug, Arya and Bran argued quietly, occasionally pushing and shoving one another while their wolves watched on, disinterested. In the corner, by the door that led to the boys' rooms, Lyanna and Robb found themselves locked in their fifth game of chess, quietly taking each other’s knights and pawns. They over at their siblings from time to time to make sure no one had set themselves on fire again. Each of the wolves was happily curled up by their owners, earning a stroke from them when they paused in their activity long enough to do so.

Robb had just lost his second rook to Lyanna when Bran’s whines flooded the room. “Why can’t you go a day without showing off?”

“I’ll stop showing off when you learn how to shoot.” Arya countered, raising her voice to match Bran’s.

As the closest in age, Bran and Arya often squabbled, even more so than Arya and Sansa did. Every time Bran mastered a skill, his older sister would instantly prove that she was better. When the eleven-year-old had begged to go out on a proper horse and been denied, the twelve-year-old had ridden a filly through the courtyard. Their older siblings and Rickon had long ago come to accept that their siblings would fight.

“Not this again.” Robb groaned, rubbing his eyes and looking back at the chessboard, “fuck.” As fast as lightning, Lyanna’s hand struck him and with wide eyes, he cried out: “Oww!”

“Rickon.” Lyanna reminded him, nodding her head towards their youngest brother.

Taking his wrist in his hand, Robb rubbed it slowly, shaking his head at his sister. A heavy sigh left his lips and rolled his eyes before he said: “He knows how to swear by now.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Lyanna asked, glancing down at the chessboard and moving her queen, placing the figure down with purposeful intent. Smirking at Robb, Lyanna said softly: “Checkmate.”

“Seven Hells!” Robb cried out, throwing his hands up. 

Lyanna continued to smirk, settling back in her seat and cocking her eyebrow up at him, daring him to challenge her to another game. Robb looked ready to accept the challenge but both of them caught sight of their little sister shoving their brother. Rising from his chair, Robb turned to Arya and said: “Leave Bran alone, Arya.” 

“But I’m just telling the truth,” Arya argued, crossing her arms across her chest.

Everyone else exchanged a long glance, more than used to Arya’s antics by this point. The youngest sister had never been known for holding her tongue or for letting others tell her that she was wrong. Robb’s eyes darted to Lyanna’s and after a few moments, the eldest sister found herself stepping forward towards Arya. Just as Lyanna was about to speak, a furious voice called out from behind the locked door.

“Seven Hells, Ned!”

Lady Catelyn’s voice was unmistakable, as was her fury. Each of the children had heard their mother yell before, at both themselves and other members of the castle inhabitants. The Southern Lady of Winterfell could strike fear into the hearts of even the bravest Northerner, and each of her children shrank back at her rage. It wasn’t often she yelled at their father, but when she did, they all knew better than to ask about it.

When her footsteps and their father’s had passed, a meek voice from the fire spoke up. “Is that Lady Mother?”

“Who else calls our father, Ned and not Lord Stark?” Robb asked, rounding on Sansa, who only pulled herself and Rickon further into the armchair. The fourteen-year-old stared up at Robb, her blue eyes wide, and he bowed his head in shame under her gaze, murmuring: “Sounds like they’ve been arguing.”

“They’ve been at it all night.” Lyanna sighed, shrugging. Turning back to the spindly table in the corner, she began to walk back to the chessboard, putting all the pieces in their places, acutely aware of five sets of eyes upon her. Choosing to ignore it, Lyanna turned her steel gaze to Robb and asked: “Another game?”

Snapping out of her quiet daze, Arya asked: “Why are they arguing?”

Lyanna shrugged, not looking at her. Nervous fingers reached up to the elaborate braid she always wore and began to slowly untangle the dark-brown waves. The main braid came apart with ease, and even the spiralled plait formed from two side strands fell apart with little effort. Lyanna’s dark hair cascaded halfway down her back, grazing over the white nightdress she wore and pooling in the grey shawl around her back and arms. Her eyes remained focused on the board throughout, and she didn’t dare look back at her siblings until she heard Bran ask: “Ly?”

Running a hand through her hair, Lyanna turned around, smiling, though it didn’t reach her dark gaze. Her hands moved to pick at her shawl and trying to remain indifferent she said: “It doesn’t matter. They’ll tell us in the morning.” Lyanna offered them another smile before turning to Robb and asking: “now are you going to lose to me again or what?”

“Shut up, Lyanna!” Robb protested, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“What’s going on, Lyanna? Come on, tell us.” Bran butted in, not content to wait. Sansa and Rickon had risen from their seats, standing behind Arya and Bran, their eyes alight and curious. Even the wolves, who had up until this point been peacefully dozing, looked up at her, gold, silver and red gazes boring into her body as Bran mumbled: “Please.”

“Seven Hells,” Lyanna said, fumbling with her shawl once more. Knowing that they wouldn’t take no for an answer for any longer, the young woman sighed. Sweeping her fingers through her curls, the eldest Stark daughter informed them: “Jon Arryn, the King’s Hand, has died and since he raised Father, King Robert wanted him to know, and well, is coming here with the entire court.”

“Including the Prince?” Sansa asked, a little dreamily.

“And the Imp?” Arya questioned, her eyes wide with fascination.

“What about the Targaryen Boy?” Robb pressed, his eyes dark.

“They’re part of the court, aren’t they?” Lyanna shrugged, choosing not to focus on any of the figures her siblings had brought up. She cared little for the spoiled prince and had no desire to meet Tyrion Lannister. As for her betrothed, the less she thought about him the better, after all, it wasn’t like she had a choice in the matter. Shaking herself, Lyanna smiled and said: “But yes, I assume so.”

“Why is he coming so far North?” Bran asked, far too curious for his own good.

Robb quirked an eyebrow up at Lyanna, amused to see his usually poised sister looking so weary at the number of questions. The girl in question ignored his look, knowing that he was silently gloating that for once it was her turn to answer Bran. Softly Lyanna said: “Mother reckons he’s going to ask Father to become the Hand of the King. That’s why they’re arguing. Mother doesn’t want him to go, but Father will probably go serve him. He’ll consider it his duty and that his honour will be in question if he doesn’t go to King’s Landing at once with the King.”

“Will we go with him?” Sansa asked from behind Bran. Her arm was still wrapped around Rickon, cradling the young boy to her side, her hands smoothing over his curls, much like their mother’s usually did. 

“Probably not,” Lyanna said, though not entirely convinced herself. If her father did ride South, Lyanna prayed that he’d have the sense to leave his children behind, save her. After all, she’d be headed that way herself in little under three moons. Allowing her eyes to rest on each and every one of them, Lyanna added quietly: “I will most likely have to go with him. I am meant to be getting married soon.”

“To the Targaryen boy?” Sansa asked, round eyes unsure and Lyanna was certain that she caught a tiny flicker of fear in her sister’s gaze. Lyanna knew all too well what her sister was thinking, they all knew it. The lone wolf never survives for long without their pack.

“Lord Jon, son of Prince Rhaegar and rightful heir to the throne,” Bran said, bringing them all out of their thoughts. Five heads snapped to face him, eyes wide and hearts pounding.

“Bran,” Robb warned.

Kneeling in front of her brother, Lyanna gently grabbed Bran’s face, ensuring that he met her eyes. Quietly and sternly, she said: “Listen to me, Bran, and listen closely, the Targaryens are no longer kings and queens. Lord Jon is merely a Lord, nothing more. You cannot say he is the rightful heir, not here and certainly not around anyone who is not family. It is treason and you will lose your head for it.”

“But -” Bran started.

“No more, Bran.” Lyanna cut him off. 

Feeling her heart hammer violently beneath her breast, Lyanna stayed knelt in front of Bran, her eyes looking for any sign of disobedience. She found none. Fear stained the normally vibrant blue gaze of her young brother, and he nodded slowly in understanding before hanging his head in shame. Lyanna’s eyes fluttered closed at the sight, grateful that for once, he seemed to be heeding her words.

Climbing to her feet, Lyanna swept her dark hair behind her shoulder once more before saying softly: “You should all be going to bed. Mother will be expecting us to help prepare the castle tomorrow and every day until the royals arrive.” 

Disappointed groans followed her words, but no one moved to argue with her. Instead, the four youngest Stark siblings merely scooped their wolves into their arms and began to make their way out of the solar. Bran and Rickon headed for the left-hand door, towards the boys’ rooms while Sansa and Arya turned right. Each of them paused before leaving, casting Robb and Lyanna one last look and gave them a final shy smile before disappearing off on their own. The heavy locks clicked into place at the same time, echoing through the tiny solar.

“You’re afraid,” Robb said, breaking the silence.

If Lyanna had been more awake and if anyone other than Robb had spoken, she’d have threatened him for daring to suggest such a thing, but instead, she just found herself slumping where she stood. Brushing aside several stray locks of dark, Lyanna looked up at Robb and asked softly: “Aren’t you?”

“Father will be a great Hand, and I’m sure King’s Landing is a great city,” Robb assured her, puffing his chest out, hoping to look strong, but to Lyanna, he just looked like a boy desperate to pretend he was a man.

“It’s a shithole ruled by lions, spiders and villains.” Lyanna countered, rubbing her temples. 

Stretching slightly, the young woman began to pace slowly, Ghost at her heels, copying her actions. It was as if the wolf could sense Lyanna’s inner turmoil, and with each brush against her ankles, Ghost was trying to calm the girl. Lyanna appreciated her efforts, no matter how in vain they were. There were too many things to worry about now and not even a warm fire and a faithful companion or brother could help soothe all of her worries.

Grey eyes found blue and Lyanna confessed: “I don’t know if Father will be able to survive going South.”

“Will you?” Robb pressed.

“I must do my duty, Robb,” Lyanna said, straightening up and setting her shoulders, she fixed him with a determined gaze that was only slightly tainted by a few flashes of apprehension. “I don’t get a choice in this. Either way, I must go South. I just hope I will be able to go there with some of my family.”

“You’ll always be welcome back home, I’ll make sure of it,” Robb assured her, halting her pacing and wrapping an arm around Lyanna’s slender shoulders, holding her close and kissing her temple. Lyanna let her brother comfort her warring emotions and listened to him add: “Winter is coming, dear sister, and we must be ready for it.”

Closing her eyes, Lyanna couldn’t stop herself from praying that winter wouldn’t make her presence known for years, maybe even decades yet. She knew it was futile, a childish prayer, but she couldn’t stop herself. Neither Robb nor Lyanna remembered the winter they had been born into, but as children of summer, they could only hope that it would be mild and short. Deep down, they both knew that the seasons would never be that kind, and Robb was right, they’d have to be ready for whatever the winter would bring with it.


	2. Jon I

_ ‘I swear it by earth and water. _

_ I swear it by bronze and iron. _

_ I swear it by ice and fire.’ _

Of all the Kingdoms of Westeros, none were quite as vast or as sparse as the North. None of them could measure up to the sheer scale of the North nor compare to its beauty. The Southern regions were stained with blood and gold, but in the Kingdom of the Old Men, steel and snow covered the lands, drenching the fields with honour and an ancient weariness that the South had long forgotten. The late summer sun glittered over acres of emerald green fields, dusted with white frost. Wolves howled from their dark sanctuaries, hidden behind thick and endless forests, safe from the foreigners invading their home. Stray Northerners caught sight of them and narrowed their eyes, less than delighted to see so many Southerners riding through their lands.

The Court rode North like the invading army of the conqueror, determined to tame the land that lay before them. Thousands of hooves pounded the Kingsroad, and at every man’s hip, a sword was sheathed, ready to be swung at a moment's notice. Though most were worn decoratively, most of the invaders had tightened their grip on the hilt of their weapons, tempted to draw them on anything they found strange or alien. There had been many whispers amongst the members of the court, all of which pondered that there weren’t enough guards to keep them safe in such a savage land.

Jon scoffed at such notions. He’d been raised in the Westerlands under the watchful eyes of Tywin, Tyrion and Jaime Lannister, and had learned to wield a sword with the finest fighters the Lannisters could find. Jon had fought tournaments in the Reach, Dorne and the Crownlands where many had clamoured to get a look at the dark-haired Targaryen. He had even witnessed the courts in the Vale, Riverlands, Iron Islands and Stormlands, and been exposed to their savagery. Compared to the other Kingdoms, the North was the last stronghold of honour and civility whereas the Southern Kingdoms were ridden with crime, backstabbing and treachery. 

Those thoughts didn’t quite put him at ease though. Many Northerners glowered at the blood-red three-headed emblazoned onto the black velvet of his cloak and daggers were less than concealed in their gazes when they saw the very Targaryen shade of indigo hue of his eyes. Jon had grown used to keeping his head bowed and his eyes averted away since they’d passed the Neck, which had been a blessing and a curse. His eyes had been allowed to wander over the sprawling countryside but he could still feel the hatred in the glares he received, even if he didn’t witness them.

By the time the endless emerald fields gave way to the thick forest of the Wolfswood and the dark grey sprawl across the horizon that was the castle of Winterfell. Although the castle wasn’t as large as some of its southern counterparts, the mere sight of it in the distance took Jon’s breath away. It rose from the pale mists, a mountain of carved stone with direwolves guarding the southern gate, etched into the stone and overhanging as gargoyles, barring their teeth at those approaching the castles. Hanging down from the battlements, blowing about in the wind line sheets of snow were the Stark banners, the grey direwolf running over the walls of their home.

Jon stared up at the castle, his lips slightly parted and without much thought he urged his horse on, forcing the black stallion into a canter, desperate to reach the grey granite structure. Much like when he stayed at Summerhall and Dragonstone, the young Targaryen Lord smiled, the feeling of belonging mixing with the anxiety that had been plaguing him for a moon. There was something comforting about seeing the dark grey direwolf. A surge of joy rushed through him, though it didn’t last long.

In front of him, barely managing to control his white mare, Joffrey sniffed: “They could have made more effort to greet us. And where are our banners? Why is their sigil more important than ours? It’s hardly a royal welcome.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon found himself mumbling: “maybe if you had stayed behind at the Red Keep, they’d be more festive.”

Unfortunately, the elements weren’t on his side and the snide remark carried through the air, pricking Joffrey’s ears and earning the crown prince’s ire. The golden-haired boy turned sharply in his saddle, his mother’s golden tiara almost falling off of his silky blonde curls, and his lips pressed into an ugly ruby Lannister red line. Emerald green eyes bore into disinterested, indifferent indigo and with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much Jon thought, Joffrey spat: “Hold your tongue, Dragon Bastard.”

Rising in his saddle, Jon cocked his head to the side, his eyes sweeping over Joffrey’s distinctly Lannister features. Had he not been the crown prince, and because Jon was all too aware that Robert was listening, the older man would have pointed out that he wasn’t the bastard there. Then again, Joffrey would have had to have known about his true parentage first, and the Targaryen Lord wasn’t about to risk putting Jaime’s head on a spike just to annoy Joffrey, no matter how much the little brat deserved it.

Joffrey opened his mouth once more but was denied the chance to add to his complaints when Robert turned back to his son and his ward, blue eyes narrowed. Sizing up both of them, the King turned to his son and all but bellowed: “Would you shut up with your complaints? I’ve had a moon of you going on about all of the shit you can’t stand. You should have stayed in the wheelhouse, like the other children.” 

From his place to Robert’s left, Jon was surprised to see Joffrey hang his head, not quite in shame, but at least the prince had the grace to pretend to be ashamed when he was scolded by his father. The lord was almost too distracted to see Robert turn to him as well, but the fire in the King’s eyes burned too hot to be ignored. Jon met the older man’s gaze and tried not to recoil when the King spat: “And you Dragonspawn, need to remember that you are not royal and should hold your fucking tongue.”

With that, father and son dug their heels into their horses, sparing onwards towards Winterfell with Joffrey’s faithful shield riding to catch up with them. Just as desperate to get off of his horse, Jon was about to copy their actions when a hand came to rest on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks and pulling him back slightly.

Ser Jaime Lannister couldn’t have been more different than his charge. He was golden-haired where Jon’s curls were as black as soot. He was bold and brash where Jon was silent and observant. He was fast and strong where Jon was quick and decisive. Their family history should have made them despise one another, but having both been brought up under the guidance of Tywin Lannister, the pair had grown close over the years. That and they had bonded over their mutual distrust and disgust of their King and the rest of the royals, despite Jaime’s connection to the three children. 

“If you murder the King right now, you’ll be dead before you even get to see your bride.” Jaime pointed out, a smirk fixed to his lips, almost more eager to meet the woman that the young Targaryen would wed than the man himself. 

“You could always kill him for me,” Jon suggested, only half-joking.

Dark eyes darted back to the King’s head, narrowing at the golden crown that rested on Robert’s greying locks. Jon had lost count how many times he’d wanted to kill the King in the past month alone. Arrogant and proud, Robert was far too lost in his former glories to see that he was hardly even fit to be the shadow of his former self. Jon couldn’t help but despise the man who had been meant to raise him, and had wished countless times that Robert had just broken his promise to his late betrothed, but unfortunately for the young Targaryen that had yet to happen. 

“My sister would never forgive me for being the reason she lost her throne,” Jaime said, pulling Jon out of his thoughts and grinning at the younger man. “Besides, I rather enjoy watching you seeth.”

“You’re a sadistic man, Jaime Lannister.” Jon scowled.

“And your only friend.” Jaime reminded him, his smirk only broadening.

“I’m rather partial to Tyrion’s company.” Jon countered, glancing over his shoulder to see the youngest of Tywin’s children riding alone, somewhat away from the crowd and away from Winterfell. Shaking his head, he knew all too well that Tyrion would be off to Winter’s Town to find the nearest and warmest bed he could before he’d be forced to join the formalities. Had the Lannister picked a less sordid activity, Jon would have been tempted to join him, but instead settled for Jaime’s company.

Glancing back at his friend, Jon watched the smirk twist into a mild grimace and with a very little bite, Jaime said: “I’ll remember that, little Dragon.”

Laughter peeled from Jon’s lips, a single moment of joy sparking between them, though it was short-lived. The gates of Winterfell loomed overhead and their laughter was drowned out by a Stark Bannerman calling out: “King Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms and Warden of the Realm.”

“And the father of half of King’s Landing,” Jaime added, lowly before they entered.

Straightening up, Jon kept his eyes from the crowd on the other side of the courtyard, too scared of what he would find in the sea of grey, black and blue. He knew too well that if his eyes strayed, he would likely lose control of his horse, and despite lacking the Baratheon pride, he couldn’t allow himself to be outclassed by Joffrey. It was only when the wheelhouse had pulled in behind him and the horses were cramped into the courtyard that Jon risked a glance over at them.

The Starks stood at the forefront, all bundled up in their cloaks, though the cold seemed not to bother them much. Five of them bore the Tully’s trademark red hair and blue eyes and were dressed accordingly in greys and soft blues. Even the youngest daughter, who bore more of a resemblance to her father with dark curls and grey eyes wore blue, leaving only Lord Eddard and his eldest daughter dressed in Stark grey, and Jon was grateful for it.

Lyanna Stark would have stood out in any crowd, but when Jon’s eyes finally came to rest on her, he found himself lost for breath and couldn’t help but wonder why no one else was staring at her. Most of her dark hair had been pulled away from her face in an elaborate braid that spiralled around the back of her head once before falling into a thicker plait down her back. Only a few strands escaped, brushing against the smooth porcelain skin of her face and falling into the pools of silver that formed her eyes. Jon couldn’t help but stare at her. His eyes trailed down from her soft rosy blush down over the dark black dress, admiring the grey direwolves embroidered into the fabric before his eyes moved back to find hers waiting. Silver met indigo and neither looked away, not even as those standing in the courtyard stooped into a low bow for their King.

“Your Grace, Winterfell is Yours.” Lord Eddard said, his voice echoing through the open area, reverberated off of the ancient stones and commanding almost everyone’s attention, save that of his eldest daughter and his soon to be Goodson.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding for the past nine years? Up here?” Robert asked, looking around with a similar disdain and disinterest that his son had shared for the Stark’s home. Jon bristled in his saddle, unsure of what Robert would do next when the King looked over at his old friend and added: “You’ve got fat.” 

Silence.

Lords on either side reached for their swords, tentative and afraid while behind the Stark children, direwolves growled softly, hidden from view but very much there. The Southerners gazed over at their Northerner hosts, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into thin lines. The air was thick and a pin drop could have broken the silence. Instead, it was the sound of bellowing laughter that ripped the Lords away from their swords.

The courtyard stared, disbelief masking their features as stern-faced Eddard Stark and the mighty Robert Baratheon broke into gales of laughter, like two schoolboys, all but ready to roll around in the dirt. Grinning from ear to ear, the King embraced his friend, holding him close, like a brother would, and exclaiming: “Gods it’s good to see you, Ned.” 

The Lord of Winterfell nodded, returning the sentiment before stepping aside, allowing Robert’s eyes to turn to the family waiting patiently to greet their king, not that all of them seemed impressed. Lyanna and her youngest sister stared at the older man, a flicker of disgust and disappointment in their grey eyes while the boys and the red-haired girl looked at their father, unsure.

Robert barely spared them a glance, instead of turning to the Northern Lord’s wife and scooping her up in his arms, pressing what had to be a sloppy, scratchy and unpleasant kiss to her cheek. Jon gave the woman credit, she didn’t recoil as most would. Instead, she smiled, inclining her head and smiling when the King yelled her name. “Cat!” Once more he embraced her, and once more she held herself with more grace than the Queen before Robert smiled and moved away.

From his place high above them, Jon watched the older Stark children exchange a glance and a soft smile. The brother nodded at his sister, grateful for her presence and then turned his head to the King. the young man, who couldn’t have been much older than Jon, found his arm seized and Robert said, smiling: “You must be Robb.” Even this far away, Jon could tell that while Robert admired his namesake, the young man fought back a grimace and barely managed to hold his impassive mask, not that it mattered, for the King had already moved onto the boy’s sister.

“Seven have mercy.” 

The choked sound surprised Jon, which in itself was a shock. He’d prided himself on being able to read the entire court, but here, watching silently, he found himself stumped. The King just stared, not moving, his eyes raking over the young woman before him, only seeing the ghost of his former betrothed and not the girl herself. Robert barely moved, taking in her similarities and ignoring that Lyanna’s eyes weren’t brown, nor did wear winter roses. The only similarity she bore to her aunt, bar her resemblance, was an urge to get away from Robert Baratheon.

“Lyanna.”

“Your Grace,” Lyanna said, curtseying before him.

She had barely risen from her low bow when Robert seized her hand with a speed that he should not have possessed. Tenderly, gently and reverently, he placed his lips to the back of Lyanna’s hand, his eyes still not truly seeing her. One last dart of his eyes was permitted by the King to himself before he moved on, turning away from the young woman. 

Jon watched her shrink back, further away from the King, avoiding Robert’s glances as he greeted her siblings. Lyanna rested against her brother, letting him offer her some comfort and only broke away from his side when the door to the wheelhouse finally opened. Then, once more, Lyanna sunk downwards towards the mud and cobbles, her head bowed before Queen Cersei. Not that Jon watched her curtsey, since he could finally dismount and merely inclined his head for the Lannister Queen, who was less than impressed by the castle surrounding her. 

“My Queen.” Lord Eddard said, taking the Queen’s hand and kissing her ring of state. Unlike with the King, there was no love there and the moment he could release her, Lord Eddard did so. Cersei barely had a moment to look mildly disgusted before once more Robert demanded the attention of the crowd once again.

“Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects.”

Eyes flickered back and forth, several coming to rest on Jon, but Cersei commanded them back to her when she said: “we’ve been riding for a month, my love, surely the dead can wait.”

“Ned,” Robert ordered. The Lord of Winterfell didn’t argue nor look over at the Queen, but instead guided the King from the courtyard and towards the resting place of the woman who both had loved more than life itself. 

There was no staying after that. 

Servants swept up the visiting dignitaries, leading them far away with some lords helping to guide the more regal guests to their chambers. Jon barely managed to sneak one last glance at Lyanna, his eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a second before he too was swept up by the storm of servants. By the time he looked back again, the young woman had vanished, seeking sanctuary in her rooms away from the foreigners. Jon despised the pit in his stomach, not that he had much time to ponder it, and with a soft sigh turned away, determined to find a way to talk to the young woman as soon as he could. With that decided, the Targaryen Lord gladly allowed himself to be pulled into Winterfell’s warm halls and away from the icy cold of the Northern air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I hope that you liked this chapter and continue to enjoy the story. I am sorry for the long time between updates, I am in the process of moving to university and when my coursework kicks in that will be the priority whereas writing this will be to unwind. I am sorry if this means slow updates and inconsistent ones. Despite that, I hope you will all continue to read and enjoy the story. The next chapter will most likely be longer and therefore may take some time to write. Thank you very much and I hope you continue to enjoy.


	3. Author's Note

Hi,

I'm sorry for not posting, but I have been really ill of late and have just started university plus depression is always fun (not please note the sarcasm). I have been trying to write an update but the words haven't been coming to me, I'm afraid.

Since I've been ill, I haven't wanted to write any hard hitting works and have been using writing as an outlet on something much less taxing to write since my autistic brain has found a new obsession (they're hard to kick). As a result, I have been more focused on that because a, it cheers me up and b, I literally can't think of anything else to write that doesn't include that and it really does not mix well with Game Of Thrones, I'm sorry.

Additionally, my first year of a four year course in chemistry has recently begun, which added to being ill is a very intense experience, and demands a lot of my time. This story has quite a lot of additional lore to it, and added to my other work it is near impossible to have a regular update schedule. I am sorry about that but it is the way that life is and this is an outlet for me.

Finally, the depression and autism is making it hard for me to write this in particular, but the good news is that the Game of Thrones books and show is something I come back to time and time again. Because of this, when I get out of this dip with my mental health I will almost certainly find it easier to write.

But for now I am taking some time away and just writing things that make me happy and won't make me spiral. I am sorry for this but hope that you all understand.

Thank you


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